


you can't blame me (for hating it)

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra Grant Ward, Hydra Jemma Simmons, Ward x Simmons Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-10 13:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5587231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jemma's had a rough time of it lately. Grant's got his own ways of dealing with it.</p><p>[For the <b>Celestial</b> theme at Ward x Simmons Winter.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can't blame me (for hating it)

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in [the after you verse](http://shineyma.tumblr.com/tagged/verse%3A-after-you/chrono), but I think you'll be able to understand this without reading that.
> 
> Thanks for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Grant is a little surprised but not all that concerned to find Jemma absent when he heads up to the penthouse for a shower.

Finishing his shower to find her _still_ absent, however, he’s very surprised—and very concerned.

Jemma has been lethargic and a little spacey, lately, under the weight of the mountain of painkillers he’s pressed on her, and her interest in witnessing her captors’ rightful punishment has waxed and waned at random. One thing that _hasn’t_ changed, though, is that she’s just as reluctant to let Grant out of her sight as he is to let her out of his.

So her not being around when he comes upstairs covered in blood (he might’ve gotten a little overenthusiastic after the nightmare that had Jemma sobbing last night) is one thing. Her not being around when he’s completely clean and as far away from the cells in the basement as it’s possible to get is something else entirely.

Still, there’s no need to jump to conclusions. Jemma knows better than to leave the building right now—hell, his people know better than to _let_ her—and no one makes it inside without him knowing about it. Chances are she’s just fallen asleep somewhere weird again; just the other day, he found her napping in a supply closet on an administrative floor.

His favorites have taken to keeping very careful track of Jemma since her rescue (which reminds him, he still needs to do _something_ to reward them for their contribution to said rescue; they’ve all gotten raises, of course, but that’s really not enough), so the first thing he does is seek out Evie.

She’s been dealing with some kind of fuck-up in the west coast office all day, so she can’t give him a location on Jemma, but she does point him to Aldridge, who’s apparently got this block booked on the Jemma-duty roster.

(Seriously. It’s a _literal roster_ that Evie pulls up on her tablet. Fucking ridiculous…but gratifying.)

A quick text to Aldridge gets him an immediate answer: _Planetarium_.

Typical.

Grant grimaces, even as he does an about face towards the elevators. The ‘planetarium,’ as Jemma insists on calling it, is really more of a—hell, he doesn’t know. It’s a room on the 42nd floor that pairs HYDRA’s best holographic tech with some really convincing fake grass and what’s basically a glorified, but subtle, wind machine to give the illusion of being outside at night.

He had it built—and man, was it expensive; half of the funds he _liberated_ from old man Malick before killing him went into this single project—for Jemma as a gift/peace offering, back in the days when he was keeping her on lockdown as a precaution.

(And damn if he doesn’t regret ever lifting said lockdown.)

 _She_ loves it and was appropriately touched by the gesture, but Grant’s always kind of regretted having it made. For one thing, it’s disorienting as hell to step from a hallway into a field spread under the stars—especially in the middle of the day. And for another, after his years in the woods, Grant’s really not big on fields _or_ stars.

If it didn’t make her so happy, he’d have destroyed the planetarium ages ago.

But it _does_ make her happy, so what can he do?

When he reaches the planetarium, he finds Jemma lying on her back in the grass and Aldridge sitting next to her. Aldridge, of course, climbs to her feet as soon as she sees him; Jemma barely opens her eyes.

“Something wrong, sir?” Aldridge asks.

“Nope. Just wanted to spend some time with my wife.” He waves her off. “Take a break.”

Aldridge nods and then, to his surprise, turns her back on him to crouch next to Jemma.

“Jemma?” she says, tapping Jemma’s cheek. “Can you listen to me for a sec?”

“Hmm?” Jemma sighs.

“It’s 1527 hours, and I’m leaving now, okay? Amira is up next in the rotation,” Aldridge tells her. “Did you get that?”

“1527, goo’bye, ’Mira next,” Jemma says. It’s a little slurred, but surprisingly coherent for how out of it she looks. She must’ve taken the stronger pills today—and the thought of why she’d choose them is almost enough to bring back the rage he spent all morning taking out on his prisoners. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Aldridge says, and straightens. Under Grant’s raised eyebrow, she shrugs a little sheepishly. “She got kinda upset the other day over not being able to keep track of stuff—where she is, who’s with her, that kind of thing. So we’re making sure to tell her.”

Yeah. He’s definitely gonna have to do something to show his appreciation.

“Good work,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Our pleasure, sir,” Aldridge assures him, and then shows herself out.

As she shuts the door behind her, it blends seamlessly into the wall, completing the room’s illusion. Grant cracks his neck, fighting off discomfort, and drops down to sit beside Jemma.

“Hey baby,” he says. He leans over her, resting his weight on one hand as he rubs the other gently over her stomach, careful to avoid the injuries hiding beneath her shirt. There aren’t many places he can touch her without causing pain. “How you feeling?”

“Tired,” is her morose reply. “M’fuzzy.”

“I’m sorry.” It’s almost a mercy that the painkillers have her sleeping so often; without them, he’s sure she’d be even more upset over how hard it is for her to think. “You wanna go upstairs, sleep for a while?”

“ _No_.”

Okay, that’s not a good tone.

“I’ll stay with you,” he promises. “I’m yours for the rest of the day.”

“No,” she repeats, and then fumbles for his hand—which he’s guessing is meant to clarify that it’s not his presence she’s objecting to. “I can’t—” her eyebrows scrunch together, a clear sign she’s trying to fight the drugs’ haze to find the right words. “The walls…too small.”

Oh.

He rubs his thumb over her knuckles, buying himself a minute while he forces himself to calm down.

“You feeling claustrophobic?” he asks, once he can trust his voice.

She clings tight to his hand. “Uh huh.”

Back when Grant first took over HYDRA, he faced some opposition—and, being HYDRA, the fighting got dirty, _fast_. Well aware that Jemma was and is his greatest weak spot, he confined her to the most secure floors of this building until things settled down. She bore it with (mostly) good grace, especially once he had the planetarium installed, but having her entire world narrowed down to three floors for nearly six months took its toll.

These days, she gets a little restless if she doesn’t go outside at least every other day. And if she’s told she _can’t_? She gets downright panicked.

“I’m sorry, Jemma,” he says, and lifts her hand to kiss her knuckles. “If it was safe—”

“Don’ wann—” She stops, makes a frustrated noise, and then tries again, articulating very slowly and carefully.  “I don’t want to go outside. I just don’t want to be _inside_ , either.”

That…honestly makes it worse. He hates that those—suicidal _bastards_ who took her have her this rattled. She’s supposed to be fighting his restrictions, not imposing more on herself. Her spirit is just as dented as the rest of her; it’s killing him.

He silently resolves (for the millionth time) to keep his prisoners alive through the rest of the year, at _least_.

“Then I guess you’re in the right place,” he says, looking around. “All the comforts of…a grassy field, with none of the risks.”

As he was hoping, his skeptical tone makes her smile, if sleepily. Even simple conversation is too much for her under the drugs they’ve got her on—an acceptable trade-off, considering the fact that without the drugs, she can’t even _breathe_ without crying.

“Stay,” she mumbles, tugging at his hand a little.

“Of course.”

It takes some careful maneuvering—her left arm is broken, and she’s got two cracked ribs on that side, too—but they’ve had more than a week to practice this, so it’s not long before he’s lying next to her, holding her close.

Looking up at the stars (they’re seriously convincing; if he didn’t _know_ they were inside, he’d never believe it) with his wife cuddled into his side, warm and soft and trusting, stirs something like nostalgia in his chest. All those years in Wyoming would’ve been a lot more bearable with Jemma there; if not for Buddy, he probably would’ve lost his mind.

…Huh. That’s a thought.

“Jemma?” he asks quietly. “Still awake?”

Her sleepy grumble is adorable. Since she’s hiding her face in his shoulder, he doesn’t bother to hide his smile.

“Sorry,” he says. “I’ll let you sleep in a minute. But what do you think about getting a dog?”

“Hmm.” She burrows a little closer. “Be nice. Company.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” A dog could keep her company while she’s recovering; it’ll be months before she’s in any fit state to start working again, and once she cuts back on the painkillers, the boredom’s gonna drive her crazy.

Besides, therapy dogs are definitely a thing, and fuck knows she could use some therapy after everything. It’ll help her stay calm, make her feel less isolated, give her something other than bad memories to focus on…

It’ll have to be well trained, obviously, nothing too excitable that’s gonna jump on her and make her injuries worse, but…yeah. It’s a good idea.

“I’ll have Evie look into it,” he says, pairing the words with a kiss to her hair.

She hums vaguely, probably more asleep than not, and he leaves her be. For now, he could use some comfort of his own, and nothing helps more than Jemma’s slow, steady breathing.

She’s safe and recovering, and the people who hurt her are slowly but surely paying the price for it. HYDRA is firmly under his control, his plans are all on schedule, and his core team is so loyal they organized _themselves_ into protecting and comforting his wife.

 _And_ they’re getting a dog.

Things are looking up.


End file.
